Insert Witty Title Here
by Crimson Zephyr
Summary: He slipped up. He is going to be sent back to his father and brother. Back to dingy motels and thrift store clothes. Back to listening to Dean's crappy music and getting into arguments with John.


I was looking through my unfinished oneshots and, TA-DA, I found this little gem! I wrote this back when I was on a Gilmore Girls obsession streak, lol.

This has been my headcanon for a veeeeeeeery long time. What I figure is that John begrudgingly lets Sam have a normal life and sends him to an ex-hunter friend and his family in Chicago, and, well, you know the rest.

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke. Gilmore Girls belongs Amy Sherman-Palladino.

* * *

"You don't want to fight me, Tristan!"

"Why not?"

"Because I'll kill you, idiot!"

Tristan really wants to punch Dean's stupid face in but something in the back of his mind, a faint voice, tells him to stand down. The voice grows and grows until it practically screams at him.

_Get away from him!_

_He __**will**__ kill you!_

After watching Rory and Dean leave, and snubbing Paris' concerns, Tristan skulks out of the ballroom with a metaphorical cloud of frustration floating overhead. He reaches the veranda and plops down on a wrought-iron bench, running a hand down his face. As he tries to calm down, the blond's mind wanders back to Dean's parting words. He remembers looking into the brunet's eyes and seeing something there, something…real. A childhood memory of his grandfather's war stories suddenly surfaces and he recalls how the older man's eyes harden at certain times, especially when it involves shooting down the enemy.

Dean's eyes resembled his grandfather's exactly.

"This is crazy," Tristan mutters in disbelief, "like that jerk can ever kill anyone."

**. . . . . . . .**

It is six o'clock in the morning when Sam returns to the Foresters' home. He is not surprised at finding Randy sitting in the living room with a scowl and a shotgun. The teen notices the salt lines strewn along the windowsills and the smudged line at the door when he walks in.

"What happened, Sam?"

Sam takes a breath. "I screwed up."

"Elaborate."

"Rory and I…we spent the night in Miss Patty's studio and—"

"You slept with her?" The scowl deepens.

"No! Not like that!" Sam sputters. "The dance sucked and we left. We walked around town, saw that the studio was unlocked—it was cold out—and we…we ended up talking and reading and, somewhere along the line, we fell asleep."

Randy pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sam, when we took you in, you promised to be on your best behavior, which meant no sneaking around and late nights."

"And I—"

The older man holds up a hand, cutting Sam off, and deeply sighs. "When you didn't come home, Barbara and I…we thought the worst. I told John I would look out for you and then you go and do this."

"I know and I'm sorry. I am so sorry," Sam pleads.

Randy says nothing. Placing the shotgun on the coffee table, he stands and walks over to the distraught teen.

Sam goes stock-still on instinct and ashamedly looks down. He slipped up. He is going to be sent back to his father and brother. Back to dingy motels and thrift store clothes. Back to listening to Dean's crappy music and getting into arguments with John.

Back to the family business of hunting things that go bump in the night with zero chance of living a normal life ever again.

"Look at me, Sam," Randy requests.

The teen does not.

"Sam, please."

A few more seconds pass before he lifts his head to look at the older man. Instead of seeing a glower, Randy has a sympathetic half-smile.

"You're smiling," the brunet points out without thinking.

"That I am."

"But I screwed up."

The older man pats the Sam's shoulder. "Sam, you're a teenager. Mistakes are a given. I understand where you are coming from and it's a tough life."

"If I pulled this stuff with Dad—"

"I know but, please, don't ever do this again, son."

"Yes, sir."

Randy gives him another pat. "Now, go on up to bed and get some sleep because you and I are going to have a _long_ talk later."

"Oh no," Sam groans in embarrassment.

"Oh yes." An amused smile tugs at the older man's lips. "Now march, young man."

Demons and monsters may not terrify Sam Winchester but all the evils of the worlds do not compare to a father-son (pretend or not) talk or worse: a talk with his new girlfriend's mother.

* * *

If anyone has any ideas for a title, suggestions are welcomed :)


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